


Men Like You

by heartbeatslows



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-19
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2020-09-07 19:29:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20314798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartbeatslows/pseuds/heartbeatslows
Summary: Set during the Blip. Erik Selvig goes to a museum.





	Men Like You

Selvig shuffled up to the velvet rope, his hands tucked in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels. He looked over his shoulder as he went, a habit he'd picked up since he'd been on the news in Britain. No one would have recognized him here in Berlin, but even so, there was some lingering paranoia. A side effect of being put in a home, perhaps. He ran his fingers over the ridges of a trinket in his pocket – a miniature radio he'd never had a use for – and at last, looked up at the hanging painting.

"What do you think of it?"

Selvig looked up. Behind him, an elderly man in an expensive but unornamented overcoat shuffled forward, leaning heavily on a wooden cane. The cane was simple but sturdy, with a slightly unusual bend in the middle and a well-worn handle. He took a few careful steps, favoring his right leg, and stopped at Selvig's side.

"Oh, yes, it's very good," Selvig said automatically. In truth, he hadn't had enough time to decide what he thought. It was all muted colors and sharp imagery, soft lines and hard truths. It made his stomach tie in knots to even look at it.

The man's mouth quirked into a small smile. "Good, eh?" He was from here, Selvig could tell. His words, though spoken in English, had this gentle pressure, relying on the harder sounds to carry the vowels on their shoulders. Selvig listened for the voices of people who had traveled from their homes, and this man's culture bore some resemblance to his. "What is good, pray tell?"

"Oh," Selvig said, and this time he found himself at a loss for words. He gestured up, sputtering a little, his hand moving wildly. "There's, it's the people's faces. And, and the artist, with the paint dripping over the canvas like that, where he didn't paint their faces – it really speaks to you. It sort of says…"

His voice trailed off, and his hand started to fall, panning down the length of the painting, from those horrible inkblot eyes to the bare and swollen feet. He caught himself trembling, and shook himself. He was becoming as feeble as this old man.

"What does it say, my friend?" the stranger asked him, laying both hands atop his cane, and peering at Selvig with a prescience that spoke bounds.

"It says you don't know," came the words, shaking as he himself was shaking, but he couldn't seem to get back to rights, couldn't seem to get back to himself again. "You never know who died."

The man said nothing, and Selvig stepped back from the soft red cordon. "I need…I think I need to take a seat."

The man nodded along, and accompanied Selvig to the bench directly behind them. Sitting there, they could still see the painting, in all its grotesque glory.

"I don't know who died," Selvig told him. He told him, but really he was speaking aloud. Maybe he was speaking to the painting. Maybe he was speaking to… "I've been trying to call. I have a daughter. She hasn't picked up the phone. And my colleagues, all of them so young, and so brave – there were times they were like children to me. And Thor. I knew Thor of Asgard, did you know that? But how am I to find out whether he's alive?"

The man said nothing, listening silently, and they shared in the same pain that weighed on all of the planet at that moment. "Why did he do it?" Selvig asked, heaving on a shallow breath, feeling almost light-headed. "How can there be men like this?"

"Oh, my friend," the man said, his voice heavy with the tones of one who had seen trauma one too many times. "There are always men like this."


End file.
